@abmusic / cont.
๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ around an idea, around an ideal, that at times billy dunne seems less a person and more a construct โ nothing about him seems natural, spontaneous. each movement carefully reflected upon, as if invisible wiretraps laid out all around him might, at any given moment, sound the sirens and startle him to his core. and she knows, somewhere in the back of her mind, that this should be reason enough to step back: a glaring warning, red neon above his head โ no vacancy. yet in between, he betrays himself. fragments of pages peeking through and teasing: thereโs a fine print between the lines. in it lies the context โ in it, the secret. canโt help the thrill. not unlike the piles of books scattered around her room, always starving for another reveal, endlessly diving into stories unlike her own to find a reflection, a meaning, a mirror. the reflection stands before her now, but obscured: how fucking badly she wants to shine a light on it.ย
so she grins โ for all the nervous coldness he shrouds himself in, daisy lights herself up in unabashed silliness, rolls her eyes to diminish the orders he spits out, casually, as if he could really hold control over any facet of life. โ is there a point where you stop being like โ โ, a hand moves to gesture vaguely at him, while she grabs her bag, willingly forgetting the pages scribbled with lyrics behind, and heads towards the door. โ this ? โcause iโm very much looking forward to the moment you stop being a chunk of wood and turn into a real boy, pinocchio โ. beyond the door, the world opens up gold and blue, lilac in the sky, glimmering. a light evening breeze rises, faint strings in the distance โ daisy takes it in, breathes it in in eager lungfuls. eyes closed, leaning into the wind โ chest heaving as if the wind blew into her, too. then, just as naturally, a hand slips in the pocket of her jeans, retrieves a tiny pill, and sets it down on the tip of her tongue. daisy swallows, gives off an approving hum, then she smiles. โ you gotta get out of that head of yours, billy โ. a sigh carries out her frustration, and she walks in slow strides, arms wide and gesturing at the space around her. โ the world is beautiful. and shitty, and messy, and really fucking complicated โ and way bigger than your head โ then she turns, her grin turning a particular shade of shit-eating: โ though your head is pretty fucking big โ.
the thing he doesnโt quite get, the thing she canโt quite explain, is that he is not her enemy. probably the very opposite of it โ something in him speaks back to something in her. all her incessant prodding and prying is only a hopeless attempt at seeing what it is. like a toy needing to be broken around to see how it works, sheโs desperate to see the inner workings of billy dunne, to ask questions she canโt quite put into words, but sound somewhat like โ how did it come to you, the sound ? was it also a survival mechanism ? are you also only real when the spotlightโs on and the music starts and all their eyes are on you ? do you also fade out when they turn around ? daisy keeps her lips tight, and asks none of them, but instead hums to herself a little refrain stuck in her mind. d major into a vague c, g follows close behind. up ahead, red and white curtains shield a cotton candy cart from the sun โ daisy stops, and smiles. โ god. i havenโt had cotton candy in ages. โ she turns towards billy, hopeful. โ you got any spare change ? โ
